


in which wintergreen contemplates striding into the woods and living out the rest of his days as a tree

by apprenticenanoswarm



Category: DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 20:54:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17553038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apprenticenanoswarm/pseuds/apprenticenanoswarm
Summary: a week in the life of deathstroke the terminator





	in which wintergreen contemplates striding into the woods and living out the rest of his days as a tree

  

Slade woke up at five, stretched, brushed his teeth, swam fifty laps in his Olympic-sized indoor pool, ate two apples, did an hour of yoga, made his way into the kitchen, accepted a kiss on the cheek and a hearty breakfast from Billy, sat down to check his inbox while wolfing down scrambled eggs and toast, looked up in mild surprise as Dick Grayson kicked open his front door, and took a brick to the face.

“That is the only warning you get,” Grayson hissed. “Don’t do this kind of shit to me, asshole.”

He turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him.

Vaguely cognisant of Billy heaving a sigh, Slade picked up a napkin and pressed it gingerly against his broken nose, regarding the bloodied brick lying amidst the ruination of his breakfast. Attached to the brick via an elastic band were ten crisp fifty-dollar notes.

And that was Slade’s Monday morning.

0

Tuesday got off to a better start.

After finishing a mercifully uninterrupted breakfast, Slade and Billy drove out of town for four hours to a secluded mountainside location. Three men in dark suits were waiting for them, alongside a promisingly plump suitcase. Slade graced them with a cool nod and let Billy handle the pleasantries.

Then a shadow flashed across the ground.

His head snapping up, Slade took the week’s second cash-insulated brick to the face.

“Do you have any idea how embarrassed I was?” Grayson shouted down from his hang-glider.

The three suited gentlemen immediately drew their guns and took aim at the unanticipated aerial assailant, putting Slade in the unfortunate position of having to decapitate his prospective business partners.

“Out of interest, darling,” said Billy, kicking a corpse off the suitcase before bending over to pick it up, “have you done something to upset young Mister Grayson? I don’t remember him being this highly strung.”

0

Wednesday.

Snuffing a family man who earned less than $100,000 a year was, generally speaking, beneath Slade’s dignity.

But Timothy Crawford was a warden by profession, who worked in the facility where one Roy G. Bivolo had, until recently, been incarcerated. Mister Bivolo was of the opinion that Mister Crawford was host to a flawed character. More to the point, Mister Bivolo was swimming in money right now – Slade vaguely recalled a news article about a rainbow-clad entity laying siege to the National Gallery in London last month – and, consequently, could afford to throw a few thousand bucks in Slade’s direction.

And so Slade perched on the rooftop adjacent to Crawford’s favourite bar, waiting for his target to stagger out into the street and take ownership of the bullet the Rainbow Raider’s pilfered portraits of long-dead English aristocracy had paid for.

It was getting late. The snow was light but his shoulders had accumulated a two-inch deep hill. Crawford should have been out half an hour ago. Slade had watched his movements for a month, as per protocol, and he never left the bar much later than eleven.

Suspicion mounting, Slade set aside his rifle and jumped off the rooftop.

Upon inspection, it turned out that Crawford wasn’t in the bar. According to his fellow patrons, he’d been approached by a dark-haired man and persuaded to leave at once via the backdoor.

Outside the backdoor, there were two sets of footprints. There were also about a hundred fifty-dollar notes lying flat on the snow, spelling out the words ‘BITE MY ASS, WILSON’.

0

On Thursday, Slade was due to pick up some new hardware from a man in Cleveland. He cancelled the appointment and instead spent the day in an abandoned warehouse with a hole cut into the roof.

“You don’t think this is just a little childish?” Billy sighed.

“Hand me that cord,” Slade murmured, up to his elbows in the mechanical guts of an almost-identical replica of the bat signal. He’d strongly considered just stealing the original and modifying it – it would have been cheaper – but he really didn’t want to attract Wayne’s attention, both as a general rule and particularly right now.

“And we’re done,” he announced, closing the panel and standing up. “Turn it on, Billy.”

“The fact that they ever let someone like you into the armed forces stands as testimony to the dire failings of Western society,” Billy said, and slipped the switch.

Across the dark, low-hanging clouds over Bludhaven, the words ‘LOVE TO, DICKHEAD <3’ glowed with the ethereal beauty of a harvest moon.

“I’ve never been ashamed of working for a criminal until this moment,” Billy sighed, shaking his head.

Reaching for his belt, Slade said, “Perhaps I can make it up to you?”

“You can certainly try.”

0

On Friday morning, Sale awoke well-fucked and ambled downstairs to find Dick sitting at his breakfast table. Beside Slade’s sugar bowl sat a stack of cash.

“This is the rest of it,” said Dick. “I thought about spending it all on this burlesque version of your costume I found online and, I dunno, wearing it while giving Kory a lap dance and then sending you a video. But honestly, I got bored of this shit by Wednesday.”

Yawning, Billy meandered into the kitchen. “Good morning, Dick. Would you like waffles?”

“He’s thirty. Don’t coddle him,” said Slade, marching over to the nearest cabinet and taking out a jar of homemade muesli. “Here. Eat some fibre, Grayson. Maybe it’ll help you get that stick out of your ass.”

Billy huffed. “No waffles for you, you grumpy sod. Do forgive him, Dick. He’s had a rather stressful week. Nerves are a bit raw.”

“For some unfathomable reason,” said Slade, hunting around for his coffee mug. “I should have you skinned, brat.”

Dick lips twitched. “Did I ever tell you about a sexy dream I had where you were Tywin Lannister and I was that deer?”

“While this is a lovely conversation and I thank you both for allowing me to be a part of it, I’ve just remembered I need to polish my antique grenade collection. Farewell,” said Billy, and left.

“Bye, Billy,” Dick called. “Promise I’ll bring him back in one piece.”

Slade grunted as he poured them both coffee. “That’ll be quite the feat. There’s pieces of me scattered across at least five continents.”

For a while, they sipped in silence while Slade read the newspaper.

“I’m sorry,” Dick said, finally. “I overreacted.”

“I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Groaning, Dick buried his face in his hands. “No, you… I mean, you did, but…ugh. God, this is why I went with the brick. I hate conversations like this.”

“Dick, it’s no big deal. I won’t do it again. Look, I know the Titans are having a cash flow problem, what with that lawsuit and your medical bills, and I knew if I offered you money you’d say no.”

“And you thought pretending it was an anonymous donation would work? Jesus, Slade, you know how much paranoia Bruce stuffed me full of. A nice old lady whose cat we saved from a fire sent us a chocolate cake last month and I wouldn’t let anyone touch it until I’d had it under a microscope. Of course I checked where the money came from.”

“In my defence, it’s hardly the first time I’ve underestimated you, bird boy.”

Dick’s long, beautiful fingers closed over his. “If I really need help, I’ll ask for it. Okay? In the meantime, you could help me cut costs by…I dunno…taking me out to dinner now and then. But no more throwing money at me.”

“I give you my word,” said Slade, pressing a kiss to his knuckles and mentally clearing his schedule for the rest of the day.

Dick blushed. “And no more throwing bricks at you.”

“Dollface, that would be swell.”

 


End file.
